Eeeeeeeeeh fuck this so much it's 1 a.m. and it's so hard to read my journal and I can't turn my lights on or else my mom will eviscerate me. UUUUUUUUUUGH KILL ME (Metaphorically please). Also I wrote these all at lunch and magically no kid saw these and believed me to secretly be a serial killer.
Nothing smelled better than the scent of death. It was saccharine, enveloping, addicting. I craved it, needed it. So it was only natural that I took up the job of a reaper. What is better than collecting the souls of fresh corpses? Nothing, that's what. Decay and dread was my daily life now. Well, not life since you have to literally be a dead person to be a reaper. I guess you could say "I was dying to get this job?" I know, I know, I'm super lame and should just go home. But you took a chance by reading my journal so you'll have to just stick with it. After all, who wouldn't want to hear the tale of the heroine of the underworld? I definitely would. So just grab some hot cocoa and popcorn because this is going to be a loooong story.
I'm getting some seeerious Requiem vibes from this if anyone remembered that story of mine.
YOU ARE READING
Mmhmm I'm Bored
PoesieThose little things that pop into your head that you can't help but write down. I suppose it could be counted as freeform poetry-ish. Cover by the exalted @FableWrites.
